axe , «:1 ‘ "janaxofisawsfiw‘é‘fi‘ mahzsaww“ ‘t..4.-.-...'-..- ;» ‘ ’1 : t ,1 sales?!" in “" ‘L.’ Number! BEN D. HALLIDAY AGAIN! A Novel 0' H ty-Liie Revelation! HI!!!l|l!!!lllll|I!lllllllllllllllllllllllll"HANNA!" liiii llllllllllllllllll" ! ll Vol. VIII. BETHLEHEM. BY EM] LIE CLARE. Vale of beauty! Orient gem ! Sacred. honor ed Bethlehem Beside the rolling Sea; Thy gardens. and thy pastures green Where murmuring rivers flow between Thy granite rocks of gray. Here fruit and bloom, here spice and balm Waft odors sweet—pomegranate and palm, With flowers of every hue; Here singing birds of plumage bright, Entrance the ear, and charm the sight With visions ever new. Luxuriant vineyards—whispering groves— Thy terraced htlls where pleasure roves— Thy castellated towers;~ Here Nature charms and wealth commands The choicest treasures from all lands To grace the flying hours. Here murmurs the majestic Sea - I‘tiu sacred waves of Galilee; Here David tuned his lvre And woke the sweetly sol m J strain That soothed the Hebrew monarch’s pain, And calmed his bosom’s ire. Here, city blcSt. thy waters shine, That quenched the thirst of lips Divine, Whose words of truth impart. That he who drinks hall never thirst From fount of living waters nursed, But be renewed in heart. Here shone the S'ar on C‘“ ristmas morn When Christ the sacrific J was born, And shepherds watched by night Their patient flocks: here angels sung, And far and near the echoes rung O’er every starry height Oh, Bethlehzm! fair Bethlehem! Resplendent is thy diadem— Thy fame on eVery shore! “ Good-wi'l to men, on earth let peace Begin and never more to cease," Sung the angelic choir. Doubly litigated, The Young Miner’s Merciless Foe. A Tale of Pittsburg. BY DR. IVM. MASON TURNER, AUTHOR or “ uaaooos, THE STRANGE,” “ rwo ram woman,” ETC. CHAPTER 1V. MOUNT WASHINGTON ROAD-AFTER DARK. THE miserable rain still descendw, and a dis- mal night settled down on everything. The open carriage, with its occupants, pro- ceeded slowly—so slowly, indeed, that the restive bays shivered with cold, as they labored on up the rear face of the lofty hill—Mount ‘Washing- ton. It was certainly seven o’clock; the dark- ness was intense, and the driver cautiously paused now and then, and peered ahead to be certain that he was going in the right direc- tion. Grace Harley, silent and frightened, shrunk away to the far corner of her seat. The young man carefully, tenderly drew the wrappings closer around her, as if to reassure her. “ I‘m so sorry. Miss Grace, that I have brought you into this scrape.” “ Say nothing of it, Mr. Somerville. Our ob- ject now is to get back as soon as possible. I am chilled through, and papa, I kn 3w, is very uneasy about me.” Fairleigh Somerville did not answer at once, but still continued busyihg himself with _the dash-apron, and in tucking in the wrappings around his fair charge. “ ’Twas astupid mistake of mine, Miss Grace,” he said, at length. “ I took the wrong fork in the road, though I’ve been this way often enough to have known better. As soon as we clear the precipitous ascent, I can promise you that my bays will go fast enough.” Several moments passed in silence, the bays still leisurely bending to their work, and draw-- ing thelight vehicle on tosvard the top of the giddy hill. The rising breeze, wet and cold, blowing more steadily, told them they were nearing the summit of the black mountain. _ Fairleigh Somerville turned uneasily in. his seat, disarranging as he did so the wrappings spread over their laps, which he immediately busied himself to rearrange. He peered around him, to the right and to the left, in front and behind, and he spoke often to his horses. . All at once the young man turned to his fair charge, and said, in a low, insinuating v01ce: “ Pardon me, Miss Grace, pardon me; I would like to say just one word or so to you. now. Can I speak, Miss Grace?”and he thrust his face insinuatiiigly, impiideiit’y, close to hers. I The maiden drew her vail, now wet and limp with the searching mist, closer around her face, and shrunk still further away. She trembled in every limb for a moment, but by an effort re- covered herself. “ I cannot say nay, Mr. Somervdlc; but can you talk and drive with sufficieth care, too?” ‘ She evidently wished to avoid hearing what he had to say—to thr0w him off his guard. But Somerville, now that he had broken the ice, would not turn back. He still leaned toward her. and peered straight at her. “'Yes, Miss Grace. 1 can do both; the horses are safe; they know the road as well by night as by day, and, pardon me, Miss Grace, it 'does not take long to say—that, as of old, despite your frowns and your every mark of discouragement, [love you still!” The girl started, as a wild shudder crept over her frame, and cowering in her seat, she said not a word. . “ I have never ceased to love you, Grace, Since the moment 1 saw you on your return to your native city; and," continued the, young man, with increasingfervor, “ my love grows stronger as the days, weeks and months roll by. This, though a strange opportunity. yet is a fitting one for me to tell you this. 1 have waited pa— tiently for some bright sign to come from you, Grace—waited these two long years of sorrow to me—patiently. [have endeavored to show you by my devotion, and by eVery other means in my power, that you still were Very dear to me. Your father’s consent I have already ob- tained.” Grace Harley writhed in her seat, and, do what she could, a half~groan burst from her. Fairleigh Somerville heeded neitherz'he was now trembling with pent~up emotion, of What- ever nature it was. Publication Office, 98 William St., New York. and now, Grace, ours only is wanting. I our rich and young; again tender you my wealth, a strong right arm as a defense, a loving breast for a pillow to you. Tell me, Grace, if you can- not love me in return, or give me some slight token whereby I may be encouraged to hope for yOur final consent.” Still Grace Harley answered not, and as the young man paused, she turned as if to leap from the vehicle. But she controlled this impulse, and in a calm tone spoke: “ You are right, Mr. Somerville, in saying that this place, after all, is fit for what you have spoken. Please consider it an equally suitable spot for saying what I shall, in reply. As be- fore, I appreciate the offering you have laid at my feet, but, as before, I cannot acce t it. Though time has rolled by, it has broug t no change in my views on the subject of which you have just spoken. I do not love you, Mr. Somer- ville, and must beg, now, that this be my final answer.” , “ And you love another, I suppose, miss?” asked the man, suddenly and rudely. The girl answered promptly: “ I did not say it, Mr. Somerville, and I cannot answer such questions. Let us drive on home. “ You still love the memory of that con- temptible wayside beggar: but he cares not for you: he has gone—forever!” “ Sir l” exclaimed the girl. “ I am under your escort, Mr. Somerville, and I trust to you to conduct the home to my father.” “ Pardon me, Miss Harley, if I seemed rude,” said the young man, after a slight pause; “ my emotions got the better of me: and— Ah! here we are at last at the top.” Sure enough, showing dimly under the car- riage, and a few yards in front of them, lay two roads, indicating that they had reached the sum- mit of the mountain. One of the roads ran along for a short distance, on the top of the dizzy ridge, and then, gradually, it drew behind the summit of the great hill. The other skirted along the very edge of the precipitous height itself, overlooking the Monongahela, at least fif- teen hundred teet below. This was known as the Mount Washington Road, and, at all times, even in the day, is considered a giddy and a breakneck drive—the road, in many places, crumbling into the very chasm, and hardly wide enough for a carriage to pass Without risk of rolling over the ledge. For a moment young Somerville hesitated, and then coolly turned his horses’ heads and drew them into the last-mentioned road, overhanging the dark river for beneath. At the same time he struck the spirited steeds viciously with his whip. In an instant they darted forward, and the light carriage spun along the lofty edge, its wheels dislodging the earth, on the dizzy brink of the beetling cliff. “ Good heavens, Mr. Somerville!” exclaimed the girl, in terror; “ you are surely not going to try the dangers of this road on such a night? Oh! dO—do stop—do stop—and let me get out!” and she clung to his arm. . “ Do not embarrass my movements, Miss Har- ley,” returned the man, in a harsh, cold tone, “or you’ll have both of our necks broken in a very few moments.” ' And the steeds still dashed on—the light ve- hicle rolling and jerking under the impetus, 1n fearful proximity to the ledge. . ' “ Oh! I beseech you, Mr. Somervdle, turn back—turn back !” “ Turn back? \Vhy, Miss Harley, have your senses forsaken you? It would be sure (loath to attempt to turn back now, and 1 can scarcely hold the horses. Be steady! be steady! All depends on the sure-footedness of the horses, nOW.” _ His tone was very serious, and Grace felt him tremble. On they dashed, and now the narrow- est; part of the road was reached—the loftiest and dizziest, too. Fairleigh Somerville glanced quickly around him. in every direction, and then exclaimed, in a loud voice: “ Halloo, there!" ' Before the echo of his words had died away, suddenly two brawny men started, as it Were, from the very shade of the roadside, and sprung toward the vehicle. One seized the reins, and pulled down the champing horses: the other dashed for the carriage. Somerville sprung to his feet and raised his whip, but at that moment “ His consent has long since been given me, ,— \ \ll'i i, ! PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY. ,/ my, \‘\Y” ., i“ it! ' “ Go, Tom!” said the old man, in a. low voice, pointing to the bucket. took fright, and bursting from the‘ man who stood by their head, darted off at a fearful pace along the giddy path. - Grace Harley had sunk back, fainting, in the buggy. Suddenly a. tall, sinewy figure stood in the way of the flying horses, and an. arm of iron and a grip of steel Were fastened on the bridle by the head, as the liorses’ feet were raised al- most over the fearful chasm. The struggle was desperate between that stal- wart man and the mad-lened steeds, and the earth crumbled beneath his feet, and rolled the carriage. he exclaimed, in a deep, laboring breath. Before he could assist her to alight, he was struck a fierce blow on the temple, and sunk tumbling to his knees. “ That for you, Tom Worth! you intruding scoundrel 1” When the brave man had recovered his senses, the carriage and all had disappeared—not a trace was left behind. t The man slowly rose to his feet and glanced about him, and then, without any word, took his way as swiftly as he could down the Mount Washington Road. CHAPTER V. THE DAY AFTER. LATE that night, the one of startling adven- vehture on the dizzy height of the Mount lVashington Road—later by far it seemed than there was any necessity to be, judging from the distance to be traversed~an open buggy, drawn by two dashing steeds, after clearing the long stretch of the Suspension Bridge, whirled rapid- ly up Federal street, in Alleghany City,clattered around into Stockton avenue, and drew up in front of the elegant mansion of Mr. Richard Harley, the retired iron-merchant. Despite the lateness of the hour, however, lights were still gleaming in the hallway, through the transom over the door, and were shining here and there through the large house. The. driver of the buggy paused a moment and glanced around him. He was alone in the ve— hicle, and he laughed low as he noted the glance ing lights in the hall and house. “ Too bad! too bad!” he muttered. “ to come back with such news! And yet it will not, seri- ously hurt him! Time flies; I am sleepy; and now I must break the tidings! Here goes!” As he spoke, be cast the reins loosely over the dashboard, and left the panting horses to take care of themselves. Assuming a shaiiibling. uncertain gait, as if he was hurt, the man walked up the graveled way, and pulled furiously on the bell. Almost in an instant the door was opened by old Mr. Harley himself— terror and anxiety on his face. “ Ah! Mr. Sonierville! So glad you have come! And. Grace—Grace! She is not with you! Why stayed you so late? and we were so anxious, and why—what is this? what is this, Mr. Somerville? You hurt, and Where—‘where is Grace ?—speak, sir! speak at once!” and the old man advanced threateningly toward him. But Fairleigh Somerville, pushing rudely by the old man, who now stood with starting eyes and clasped hands sunk as if exhausted into a chair, and groans aloud. “ Wuit——wait, sir, but a moment!” interrupt- ed the young man, speaking in a labored voice. “Wait until I can speak, and I will tell you all I” “ Yes, tell me all, Fairleigh Somerville!” said the old man, in a stern voice; “ and mark you well~if you have harmed my child, a father’s vengeance will not spare you!” The old man‘s frame qiiivered as these words, hot and earnest, fell distinctly from his ii )8. IYoung Somerville half sprung to his feet, for— getting his hurt, and pain: but, almost instant— ly, he sunk down, groaning and muttering. “ You need not menace me, Mr. Hzirley,”he said, slowly, “and I am not now in a condition to reply properly to your insinuations—nay, your downright unjust charge. I am hurt— badly hurt, in defense, too. of your daughter 3" He paused as if for breath. was hurled out heavily to the road. The horses “ Oh, God! Mr. Somerville: forgive me! 1 down the mountain-side, under his efforts. ‘ But he gradually pressed the smoking animals .‘ back—back; and then he dashed to the side of . “ Thank God, Miss Grace, that you are saved 1” ; By Beadle , j V M, . gillllllllsn lit " l 3...! W” 1 we“ IV ii .LI N“ ’vnmmfl'm' I ,. thallium!!! .Jl'lil"l‘!lii I I'M, ! V.‘ "um-smut... ! l ,t, , ll hour: not what I 2.211 saymg; but haste~~baste and tell me of my daughter! My heart is but-5t— ihg—and she—she is my all I” Still Somerville spoke not; and could the wretched old father have seen the lialf—demoni- acal smile—not of triumph exactly, but demoni- ac, nevertheless—that flitted over the face and curled the mouth of the young man, his hand had not spared him. “Be seated, Mr. Barley, and send the do- niestics away,” at length said Somerville, in a V low tone, looking up, and motioning the old man to a seat. At a si 11 from the master, who at the same time sun languidly into a chair, the several : white—faced, frightened servants left the hall- way. “ Listen, Mr. Harley," began the young man, “ and do not interrupt me. I must hurry through and hasten home, for I am sadly in need of sur- gical aid.” “ Go on, Mr. Somerville,” said the old father, huskily. “ We—Miss Grace and myself—took a long and pleasant drive along the new way recently out behind Mount “'ashington. The rain con- tinuing, and your daughter expressing a desire to return, I turned my horses around, and set out homeward again. Whether it was owing to the lateness of the hour, the gloom hanging over everything, or to the newness of the road to me, inadvertently, at all events, I took the wrong road, and—” “Is this true, Mr. Somerville—true before God and man!” and the old man looked straight in the other’s eyes. Somerville hesitated. and this time he did half quail, and his eyes wandered nervously away from the fixed gaze of the other. Then a red flush passed over his face, and he replied, very sternly and angrily: “ You are an old man, Mr. Hurley, and have much to excuse you: but, sir, I cannot listen longer to your innuendoes and insults.” “ Excuse me~forgive me. Mr. Somerville! I am almost crazy! Say on! say on!” “ “'ell, sir—and no more such unpleasant in— terruptions, if you please—I at last managed to find my way back to the main road, and at length re ichcd the top of the mountain. I then entered the ledge-road.” “ The lec'lge-road! and on sucha night! Why, Sj1.__9) “Hear me through, or not at all, sir! I en— tered that road, because I could not prevent it. My horses had already pulled intoit, and I dared not think of attempting to turn round then. In-« deed, it was impossible to do so, as you know, air. The old man impetuously nodded his head. “W'cll, sir,” resumed Somerville, “we had proceeded safely on our w t y, for a quarter of a mile, when, reaching that portion of the road which overhangs the deepest chasm on the way, and which is unprotected by fence or wall, sud- denly two villains dashed out from the road- side. In an instant I was hurled from my car- riage, and to the earth by a murderous blow! I saw one of the men rush for Miss Grace; then tiliiifhorses took fright, and darted away for the ct . “ At that moment a man suddenly sprung from the gloom by the roadside and griped the horses by the reins. I saw him hear them back, inch by inch, and then, just as my senses for- sook me, I saw him by the carriage. How long, insensible, I lay there, I can only now tell, for he hour is late. lut, when I recovered my senses, I found my horses tied securely to the stock of an old tree, by the wayside: but of the villains or the man who had borne the. horses back from the precipice, and of Miss Grace, I could see nothing!” We will not attempt to portray the anguish of the stricken father; nor the wretchedness that prevailed that night in the Harley man- Slot). The next day the papers Were filled with accounts of the terrible outrage. After de- tailing, in the usual high - flown language, the enormity of the crime, they went. on Copyrighted l890, and Adams- saved Miss Harley. daughter of our esteemed citi- zen, Richard Harley, Esq , of Alleghany City— saved her, alas! it may be for a worse fate—has been found out to be Tom Worth. The man is a common laborer. in the Black Diamond coal mine; and though his name and calling be humble, yet it should not be forgotten by a generous public and those who recog- nize and love true heroism l” CHAPTER VI. OLD BEN, THE MINER. OLD Ben VValford, the veteran miner, walked slowly up and down the limits of his little cabin, nestled on the verge of the Coal Hills. It was late at night, and a single lamp alone illumined the darkness of the small apartment. The old man paused occasionally in his prom- enade to listen to the wind, which sighed and sung so mournfully around the corners, and un- der the eaves of his little cabin. But, shaking his head, he again resumed his walk; he had heard no welcoming step outside, crunching along toward his lonely little tenement, and was getting impatient and anxious. Old Ben, the miner, as he was generally known, was a “ character” around Pittsburg— or, rather, in his little circumscribed world there. Almost everybody knew him, and all u ho did know him respected him for his worth, independence and real nobleness of character. In the working of a mine, in any particular, whether in sinking a shaft, or making a level, or indicating the rise and dip of a coal “ drift,” the old man’s judgment was sought and heeded; for his opinions were based on a quarter cen- tury’s eXoerience in the far-away celebrated Cornish mines, and his decisions were, in every instance, sound and trustworthy. Yet, in giv- ing his “opinions,” he was unpretentious and simple as one of the little “ rclleyboys ” 0f the mine. Although so many knew Ben, and knew him so well, yet, strange as it may appear, they in— deed knew very little of him. He did not have many acquaintances—that is of his own choos- ing and making, and he cared only for a very few friends. Among these friends was one who has been mentioned in this veracious story—— Tom “'orth, the young miner, who, it , worked day by day along with Ben in “ [tack Diamond mines, lying next to the Gr 11e- ghany shafts. _ These two men, one over a half-century in years, the other little past one—third so old, were very intimate, though they differed so much in personal appearance and attributes, and in al- most every other particular save in lofty and powerful physrque. How true they were to one another—how devoted and disinterested their friendship, will be seen in the course of this romatce. , The two men were strangers to each other— the. younger having just entered the mine as a laborer—when, on a certain day, as one of them was lighting a fuse for blasting away some ob- struction in the shaft, about midway down, the light by some means was applied too soon. The explosion was imminent, and the bucket, which hung near, was too small to convey both men at once away. The two strong men shuddered, as they saw certain death staring them in the face, for it was certain death to abide the springing of the powder-charge; and they stood in mute despair, gazing at the fuse, burning nearer, nearer to the fatal fulminatc. " Go, Tom i” said the old man, in a low voice, pointing to the bucket. “ Go! I am oltl,and my days are almost over. anyway! You are young and can be happy! G0!” Thus spoke the old miner. 7 “ No, Ben, no .’ Into the bucket with you! You are old and shall die in peace! I am al- ready old in the world’s misery, with not a liv- ing soul to miss me when I am gone. Go, go Ben! and think of me once, when 1 am dead!” So spoke the younger man. " Never!” returned old Ben, and the fuse now flashing and scintillating, and the terrible pow- der only three inches away from the greedy, creeping tire. “Nay, but by heavens! you shall, old man!” and with a bound the. young man sprung for- ward, clutched the old man by the waist, and, with a giant’s strength, landed him safe into the bucket, giving the signal at the same time to those above to hoist away! As the bucket shot rapidly upward town rd day- light and safety, the young man, deep down in the black shaft, bowed his head and waited. Then came the deafening shock, rid the earth itself seemed to quake. Ten minutes of awful silence, and then the bucket- was slowly lowered again: in it, like an iron man, sat old Ben \\'alford——his eyes staring down far below him, in the smoke and gloom, his brawny neck pulsating under the heavy strokes of the art! ties beating in it. Down, down! The old man could not go fast enough: and now the place has been reached: and, yes, God be thanked! what joy rioted in the old man’s bOsom then! There, under an artificial arch of stone, made by the powerful blast itself, crouched the po\\ — der-scorched and grimy man, Tom “'ortli—tlic noble! untouched, unharmed, safe! And there, in the darkness of that black shaft ——there in the terrible solitude, it: that deep pit in the earth the old Cornish miner drew lite young man to his homo», and in a scarcely audi— ble, husky voice, murmured “ THANK GOD!” Such was the tale the miners would tell you— with an almost reverential iIianneI'~ol‘ the great friendship between Ben, the old Cornwall miner, and Tom \VOI‘tll. V g. $ Still old Ben paced up and d0wn the narrow confines of his snug little cabin——occasiohally waiting by the door, and listening, as if forsome welcome sound to reach his ears. Ben \Valford, the miner, was verging onto sixtytwo years of age, and yet we would not think so old, judging from the vigorous growth of iron-gray hair that clustered on his broad. furrowed forehead, and fell in unrestrained masses upon his neck. Much less would we judge him So, from the magnificent niusvlc and brawn of that erect, towering, athletic figure. Yet old Ben said. so himself, and there was no den), ing it. And this evening the soot and crime of the mine were washed away, showing a remarkably tine face—at once indicative of firmness, hon- es'y, candor, courage and gentleness. A fine- looking, good-looking, heart} old man was Ben Vt'alibl‘d, the miner. He suddenly paused again, and stepping to the to speak of the man who had so oppor- tunely arrested the, flying steeds. He had! indeed become a hero, for the tiain journalsi referred to him, and one concluded its article 5 thus: 1 “ The name of the gallant fellow. who, by a super- 7 human effort, forced back the fiery steeds, and door. opened it and peered out into the darkness for wvertil minutes. Then he closed the door again. shutting the cold, disagreeable air out tron: his warm cabin. “ C mfonnd 11.!“ he muttered. " Strange That l-oytion’t come! i haven’t seen his (1991‘ have since yesi‘ei'dag. morning in the wesr gallery. .m._..-. vow-1‘ A». ~._......~._._._.- .A.. v f. ._ , .. _._...._ -V..~. _.A_-—.... -.,...~,. w... - s was... 9 ' ‘—-..,.—m “16-— ‘N'm, ‘.,.,‘s'(u.-' "Mia‘s-om ... ' —l"l - ‘ ...'1_ K.Ai~l‘ :‘t'n ‘<‘